


Lilac

by PipTheShipper



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, BAMF Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes Returns, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, F/M, Florist! Tony, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Multi, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Polyamory Negotiations, Protective Steve Rogers, Rhodey Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Soldier! Bucky, Tony Stark Does What He Wants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:03:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9137341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipTheShipper/pseuds/PipTheShipper
Summary: Tony Stark is a twenty-three year old florist with a coffee addiction and a knack for picking the wrong man.Steve Rogers is a widowed artist working at Starbucks where an adorable nerd happens to visit every day.Bucky Barnes is being held captive in Afghanistan, and is not as dead as everyone thought.When these three collide, nothing will ever be the same again.





	1. Daffodil

               When Tony thought about his life, he thought about it in terms of flowers. The symbolism of it all. He had been into flowers since he was young, and his father, Howard, hadn’t loved the fact that his already feminine son was into something as _girly_ as flowers, but Tony hadn’t-and still didn’t- care.

               When he turned eighteen years old, instead of taking over Stark Industries like everyone expected, he opened a flower shop. He had tattooed flowers all over his body in beautiful, brilliant colors, and had completely embraced every aspect of his faggot-y, flower-loving nature. Fuck people who didn’t like it; they didn’t matter. Tony was content, and continued to see the world, and himself, in flowers.

               The beginning was best described as a hydrangea. Which stood for frigidness, heartlessness, and heartfelt gratitude for being understood. The frigidness and heartlessness was all because of his family, Howard and Maria. Howard expected a strong son, an heir to his legacy. Instead, he got Tony. The sweater-loving, pastel-wearing, flower-loving gay kid. If Howard was a flower, he would be an aconite. Misanthropy. The general hatred, distrust or disdain of the human species or human nature. Sounded about right.

               Howard Stark was, above all things, a scientist. An engineer. An innovator. In Howard’s mind, nothing was adequate; everything had to be improved. That kind of thinking didn’t stop when it came to his family. His son. Tony was never enough. He never could be. He could’ve been born a strong, straight, manly engineer, and Howard would still have been fucking disappointed. Tony had gotten the engineering genes, it was true, but he would never turn that on people. Unlike his father.

               Tony’s mother, as a flower, would be wormwood. Absence; bitter sorrow. After Tony was born, she got hit with severe post-partum depression, and never really recovered, despite the amount of doctors coming in and out of the Stark Mansion. The word ‘mother’ came along with shut doors, prescription bottles, and an empty seat at the dining room table.

               Tony’s childhood would have continued on like that were it not for Edwin Jarvis, the butler Howard hired to keep Tony busy while he was working. Jarvis was the ‘heartfelt gratitude for being understood’ part of the hydrangea that was the genesis of his life. Finally, someone who let him pore over books about the symbolism of flowers without judgment. Someone who got Tony flowers, and cared about the meaning behind them. Someone to tell him that he was perfect the way he was, even if others didn’t think so.

If Jarvis were a flower, he would have been a honeysuckle; devoted affection, bonds of love. Jarvis loved fiercely, and taught Tony to love the same way. It was the single greatest thing anyone had ever done for him.

               The hydrangea wilted a cold December night, on a snowy street on the way to the movies. Jarvis’ car had crashed, killing him and his beloved wife, Anna, instantly. Tony’s life became an eglantine rose; a wound to heal. Because he knew it would. Jarvis had taught him that all things healed, even the jagged hole their death had torn in Tony’s heart.

               Thankfully, the eglantine rose period didn’t last long. Tony looked to the future. Jarvis was what gave him the courage to forge his own path and open the flower shop. ‘Stark & Jarvis Flowers’ he called it. Because he carried Jarvis with him, always, and it wouldn’t be right to name it just ‘Stark Flowers’ because he didn’t just feel like a Stark. Jarvis and Anna were the real parents to him.

               His life became anthurium (happiness, abundance) upon meeting Clint Barton, who happened to be of the delphinium variety; levity, fun, ardent attachment, joy. Clint had been looking for work when Tony opened S&J Flowers. It was small back then; basically just a shack with a few blossoms. Clint saw the ‘Hiring’ sign on the outside of the door, and walked in to check it out.

               The meeting was interesting. Tony’s first impression of the sandy-haired punk was that the guy was just there to make fun of him, of his flowers, so he had gone on the defensive. Clint was wearing a leather jacket and combat boots. “I think you might be in the wrong place,” Tony had said stiffly. Clint had just grinned, picked up a flower pot (and fuck, Tony thought he was going to smash it) and said, “oopsy daisy.” Tony had been confused for a moment until he noticed that he was indeed holding a daisy.

               Tony had practically hired him on the spot. They had been inseparable ever since, and Clint was the only other man Tony had ever met that was comfortable around him and his flowers and his gayness. Which was fucking awesome, to say the least. And the anthurium hadn’t yet wilted.

               Those were the thoughts that occupied Tony’s mind as he laid in bed, mustering up the courage to get out of bed. It didn’t even feel like morning, what with no sunshine streaming through his window. His normally bright, pastel blue and yellow bedroom was dim and sad. Rain (not the light drizzly kind, the heavy aggressive kind) slid down his window and cast dancing shadows on the floor. It was seven AM, and the shop was supposed to be open by eight. But he just fucking knew the floor was going to be cold, and his slippers were all the way across the room.

               “Fuck,” he said aloud, if for no other reason than to break the silence. He climbed out of his blanket burrito and shuffled miserably across the room, stuffing his feet in the slippers (pastel purple, or course). He had less than forty-five minutes to get ready.

               He pulled on his robe and made his way to the kitchen, immediately beginning to brew a cup of coffee. He usually needed a few cups to get the day going, hence his tradition of going to Starbucks first thing. He probably wouldn’t have time though, not when he was running late.

               He ate a pop-tart, drank his coffee, and set about picking out his clothes. Tony usually preferred to wear sweaters, because sweater paws. His closet was a pastel rainbow of thick sweaters, and smelled of flowers, because he always kept flowers around the apartment.

               He donned in a pastel pink sweater, a pair of gray skinny jeans, and black converse high-tops. After running a brush through his thick, dark hair, he brushed his teeth and put on deodorant, a floral scent because he could. And then he was ready to go.

               The shop was in walking distance, which was nice, because it gave him an opportunity to enjoy the scenery. Rain sucked sometimes, but it sure was beautiful, especially when he had his umbrella and rain coat to shelter him. He made it to the shop relatively dry, and walked in to the pleasant jingle of the bell. Clint, the punctual bastard, was already there.

               “What do we have today, light of my life?” Tony asked, hanging up his rain coat. Clint never let the weather control what he wore, so he was dressed in his usual graphic tee, leather jacket, and combat boots. No rain coat, but at least there was an umbrella propped up in the corner.

               “Don’t let Rhodey hear you say that,” Clint warned with a grin. Tony met Rhodey about a year after he opened the shop, and he quickly became one of Tony’s best friends. He was in the military, though, and he got deployed often, but Tony could always count on him.

               “Nonsense!” Tony replied, placing his umbrella with Clint’s. “We all know you’re my favorite.” Clint snorted.

               “I bet you say that to all your friends,” he teased. Tony smiled.

               “Yep. All two of them.” He changed the sign from ‘closed’ to ‘open’ and stepped behind the counter. Clint pulled out a few cards and handed them over to Tony.

               The cards were the requests they got. Sometimes, people would just walk in and ask for a certain flower, but most of the time they got cards requesting bouquets for special occasions that had to be delivered. Clint handled the deliveries on his motorcycle, and Tony took special care in putting the bouquets together.

               The first card was a request for a proposal. The second was for a funeral, and the third was for a wedding, the bride’s bouquet. Those were Tony’s favorite; he was a hopeless romantic, even after the series of shitty guys he had been with. Most had hit him, and the rest were abusive emotionally.

               Tony got to work putting together the bouquets, which was the best part of his job. Quietly humming to himself, strolling through the rows of flowers and selecting the ones that best symbolized the occasion.

               By the time he finished with the proposal and the funeral, it was lunch time. Clint, who never bothered him while he was working, was reading a book at the counter.

               “Clint!” Tony said, walking up to the bigger man and clapping him on the shoulder. “Mind if I pop down to Starbucks and grab a coffee?”

               “Nah, go ahead,” Clint replied. “You finished yet?”

               “Funeral and proposal,” Tony answered. “Addresses are on the card. Deliver them whenever, so long as it’s before closing time.”

               “You got it, boss,” Clint said.

               “And don’t call me boss,” Tony objected. “We’re a team.”

               “Sorry, boss,” Clint apologized with a shit-eating grin. Tony sighed, smiled, and left the shop with anticipation. He could not wait for coffee. Starbucks was the favorite part of his day, even though he usually went in the morning. But he supposed an afternoon run would be good, too.

               It was a short walk, and he barely paid any attention to the few people who gave him weird looks. He was used to it. He reached the Starbucks within a few minutes, and walked inside. He always loved the atmosphere to the place, and his usual table was empty, which was a major bonus. He walked over to the back of the line and took his place, behind some guy who was chatting into a cell phone.

               Tony didn’t notice the guy behind the counter until the guy in front of him got up there. And boy, he was attractive. He had cropped blond hair and the most intense blue eyes Tony had ever seen. He was tall, and muscular, and tanned, with an easy smile that immediately made Tony’s knees weak.

               The guy in front of him ordered, and then it was Tony’s turn.

               “Hi! What can I get for you?” the guy asked. His nametag read ‘Steve’.

               “A tall caramel Frappuccino please,” Tony told him. Steve pulled out a cup and wrote something on it, then glanced back up at Tony.

               “And your name?” he asked.

               “Tony.”

               “Coming right up, sweetheart,” Steve told him, and winked. The guy actually winked at him. Tony could feel a blush spreading across his cheeks, and it only made Steve smile wider. “That’ll be four bucks and ninety-six cents.” Tony pulled out a twenty and handed it to him, trying to ignore the way their fingers brushed.

               “Keep the change,” Tony said softly, and stepped off to the side to wait for his coffee. One thing he noticed when he was handing over the money was Steve’s hands. They were artist’s hands, stained with color. But more than that, he noticed a pale line around the ring finger of his left hand. Where a wedding ring would be. Steve was either divorced, widowed, or a cheater. Tony had dated all three. And he still had the scars to prove it.

               Even if Steve happened to be a great guy, Tony wasn’t ready to deal with that just yet. Ty, his last boyfriend (yellow rose; jealousy, extreme betrayal), had been a piece of shit. He hit Tony whenever someone flirted with him, which wasn’t his fault, and then he turned around and fucked other people in the bed they shared. When Clint found out, he beat the man to a pulp and told him to never come near Tony again. It was kind of nice having a protector like that.

               “Caramel Frappuccino for a ‘cutie in the pink’,” a redheaded girl called out, and Tony’s head jerked up. Did that mean him? He glanced around, and saw that he was the only one wearing pink. Huh. Tony stepped forward, and grabbed his drink and a straw. The redheaded girl smiled at him. Tony blushed and headed to his usual table.

               Getting flirted with wasn’t anything new to him, as vain and conceited as that sounded. Tony’s feminine dress and obviously submissive nature attracted a lot of guys looking to take advantage. For a long time, Tony didn’t recognize that for what it was. He had gotten better after the string of guys who just wanted to use him, but his naturally trusting nature clouded his judgment. Clint had officially been put in charge of Tony’s dating life, to keep him safe.

               So even if the hot, sweet, charming Steve was interested, Tony was going to have to try to leave it alone. He had his friends, and his flowers, and his lovely pastel apartment. That was quite enough. Just as Tony had that thought, the redhead who had handed him his coffee sat down across from him at his table. Tony blinked, surprised.

               The woman was very attractive, the kind of girl Clint would have been into. Her fiery hair was curly and fell to just above her shoulders. Her eyes were green and vaguely cat-like, and her lips were full and pouty. She was tan, and all curves. She was beautiful.

               “Um…hello,” Tony said, because she was just staring at him. What had he done?

               “Hey,” she greeted him casually, like they had known one another for years. Her voice was raspy and kind of sexy. “How’s it going?”

               “Fine, I guess,” Tony replied. “I’m Tony.”

               “Natasha,” she told him. “It’s nice to meet you. How old are you?”

               “Twenty-three,” Tony answered, flustered. Was she interrogating him? Because that was what it felt like.

               “What do you do for a living?” she asked.

               “I own a flower shop down the street,” he informed her, his cheeks feeling warm.

               “Stark and Jarvis Flowers?” she guessed. Tony nodded, and she sat back in her chair, studying him with piercing eyes. “You’re Tony Stark.” Tony shrugged, uncomfortable.

               “Yeah,” he confirmed, waiting for her to yell at him, or fangirl over him, or one of the other reactions he usually got. Instead, she just nodded.

               “I like your sweater, by the way. It goes nicely with your coloring.” Tony could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks. Not a lot of people approved over his girly clothing, and very few had ever complimented him over it.

               “Thank you,” he said softly. “So, what about you? Who are you?” A strange light came into her eyes, and a small smile stretched those pouty lips. Tony vaguely got the feeling she was pleased with him, for some reason.

               “Natasha Romanoff,” she told him, watching him intently.

               “Romanoff…is that Russian?” Tony asked. She tilted her head to the side.

               “Yes, I’m Russian.”

               “ _Were you born in Russia_?” Tony questioned in Russian, wondering if she actually spoke the language or not. Tony knew seven languages, eight if one included sign language, but that was mostly for Clint.

               “ _Born and raised_ ,” she confirmed, a surprised grin splitting her cheeks. “ _Where did you learn the language? Your accent is nearly flawless_.” Tony shrugged.

               “ _I enjoy learning things_ ,” he told her. “ _Plus, the whole genius thing doesn’t hurt.”_ Natasha laughed, and Tony found himself smiling. She seemed nice. His third friend. Tony checked his watch, and his eyes widened. He had to get back to the shop.

               “Gotta get back to work?” she guessed. Tony shrugged, and smiled.

               “Duty calls.” He stood up, and pushed in his chair, like Jarvis taught him. Natasha did the same, and then glanced up at him.

               “It was a real pleasure meeting you, Tony,” she said. “I hope to see you in here again.”

               “It was nice meeting you, too,” he said sincerely. “And I live off of coffee, so I’m sure you will. Have a nice day, Natasha.” He waved, and she waved back, and Tony left the shop feeling ridiculously happy.

               He made it back to the shop only a few minutes late, which was good. Clint was sitting at the counter reading, but the bouquets Tony had made earlier were gone, and Clint’s hair was ruffled. Tony concluded that he must have made the deliveries.

               “Have a good coffee run, boss?” Clint asked without looking up. Tony grinned.

               “Sure did,” he replied. “And I met a girl.” Clint’s head jerked up. “A really cute girl who you should totally meet. She’s beautiful, Clint, and really nice. She’s Russian.”

               “You know, boss, I was thinking that we should go get coffee tomorrow,” Clint suggested with a wry smirk, and Tony laughed. Yes, his life was an anthurium.


	2. Charcoal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little splash of Steve's point of view! *jazz hands*  
> Hope you like it!

               Steve couldn’t get Tony Stark out of his head. He was spread out across his bed, staring up at the popcorned ceiling. His arms were folded behind his head in an attempt to subdue the restless itch in his hands. He wanted to draw Tony. Steve hadn’t drawn anyone since his husband, Bucky, was killed in action over in Afghanistan.

               Before Bucky had been his husband, and before Bucky had even been his boyfriend, he had been Steve’s best friend. The guy who had his back when Steve mouthed off to someone bigger than him. Which happened a lot back then, back when Steve couldn’t tip the scale at ninety pounds soaking wet. Bucky was the guy he could tell anything to, because he knew he wouldn’t judge him.

               And then later on, Bucky had been the guy he had fallen in love with. Why wouldn’t he? Bucky was incredibly fucking hot, for one. The dark hair, usually pulled up in a man bun, always with a few wispy pieces framing his face. The eyes, a bitter gray like smoke, and just as fleeting. His mouth, though, that was what always captivated Steve. The way he could pull those lips into a wry smirk, or flatten them in a disapproving line, or the way they parted slightly during sleep. Whenever Steve had drawn him, it was always the mouth he drew first. It set the tone for the rest of the sketch.

               Bucky was also the only person that Steve could perfectly capture the personality of in a drawing. Bucky was witty, and edgy, and rough around the edges but damn, on the inside he was a big fucking teddy bear. He also oozed charm when he wanted to, which was basically all the time around Steve.

               And all of that came through perfectly on paper. Bucky was his muse. When Steve was having trouble figuring out the precise color for a lilac sunset reflecting on smoky water, he just drew Bucky. It helped him figure it out, every time. His sketchbooks, which had been tucked away since Bucky’s death, were filled of his husband. Which was probably why Steve couldn’t pick them back up to draw.

               After high school, Bucky had enlisted in the military. Steve hadn’t liked it, but what could he do? He had to let Bucky be Bucky, so he held his tongue. He played the part quite well, the part of the dutiful boyfriend waiting for his beloved to come back home. And Bucky did, every time. He came back after the first six month stretch to propose. Then he was deployed again, this time for eighteen months, but when he came back, they got married. Bucky’s break was longer that time. A whole year of blissful honeymoon stage love. And then Bucky got deployed again, only this time, he never came back.

               When his husband died, a part of Steve died, too. Bucky was his better half, and without him, well….Steve was empty. That was the best word to describe it. He had stopped drawing, stopped eating, stopped sleeping. He thought he would die with all of the pain in his heart. But he didn’t. Every day, he fought the urge to just roll over and give up. Bucky wouldn’t have wanted that.

               And in the year and a half since his death, Steve had gotten better. He wasn’t healed, not fully, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. But he must have been doing something right, because for the first time in a long time, Steve had _flirted_. With Tony Stark, adorable coffee guy. And now, his fingers were itching to capture the man on paper.

               Steve gave into the urge. He sprung off the bed and marched right over to the abandoned stack of sketchbooks in the corner, and grabbed the first one on top. He opened it, and flipped to a blank page. He grabbed a charcoal pencil and sat down at the desk. He flipped on the lamp, and got to work.

               He thought of Tony. Pictured the man in his head. The eyes, those were what caught Steve’s attention. They were large, and dark, like Bambi’s eyes. Although up close, Steve had noticed gold flecks near the iris, and he started with them. The charcoal pencil was perfect in capturing Tony’s thick lashes and the light in his eyes. Steve spent about ten minutes just drawing the eyes.

               Then he moved on to the nose. Tony’s nose was cute, and small, and didn’t take very long to draw. Next, he started on the mouth. Tony’s lips were nicely shaped, and very kissable. Steve’s blood rushed south just thinking about them.

               The jawline gave him some difficulty. Tony had a gorgeous jawline, but Steve kept making it too angular, which harshened the entire face. Eventually, he found a balance between angular and soft that fit Tony just right.

               The body was fun to draw. Tony was small and adorable, but well built. Steve sketched out the oversized pink sweater the man had been wearing, and the skinny jeans that hinted at shaped legs. His ass, god, Steve wasn’t able to take his eyes off of the man’s ass. Steve wondered if Tony worked out, but he didn’t seem like the gym type. Granted, what little Steve knew of the man came from Natasha, the ultimate wingman. She had taken one look at Steve’s face, and then immediately went over to size Tony up.

               Watching them, Steve couldn’t help but be a little jealous. Natasha interacted with him easily, and made the man blush several times during their conversation. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, and he wished he had the balls to go over and talk to Tony himself. Maybe he would the next time Tony came in.

               When Natasha had come back to the counter, she was grinning. Nobody had ever made Natasha smile within the first conversation; she was a tough person to win over. But Natasha loved Tony. Apparently, the guy owned a flower shop, which was just too fucking cute. He also happened to be Tony Stark, son of Howard Stark the billionaire. He was a genius, twenty-three years old, and he spoke fluent Russian. Steve was fucking smitten. And he felt only a little guilty about it.

               An irrational part of him felt like he was betraying Bucky by having a crush on Tony, but Steve knew that was ridiculous. Bucky would have wanted him to be happy, and to move on after he died. So Steve pushed those thoughts out of his mind, and kept drawing.

               Tony’s hair was thick, and dark, and took a bit of time to do. It was styled in a casual disarray, and Steve had wanted to run his fingers through it. Luckily, he hadn’t. It would have been awkward.

               Finally, Steve was finished with his drawing. And he was….pleased with it. He hadn’t drawn anybody since Bucky, but it had turned out great. Steve wondered if maybe he truly was getting over his grief.

               Just then, his phone dinged, indicating that he had gotten a text. Steve checked and saw that it was from Natasha.

               **Tony has tattoos.** Steve’s brain short-circuited a little bit when he read it. Fuck, the mental image was hot. Steve had always had a thing for tattoos, so to find out the adorable Tony Stark had them…shit.

               **Of what? And how did you know that?** Steve sent back. His phone dinged with a reply in less than thirty seconds.

               **Flowers, lots of them. And I may or may not be watching him right now.** Steve nearly had a heart attack.

               **What do you mean, watching him?!**

               **I’m outside his flower shop in my car. And there’s a cute guy there, too.** Steve got a sinking feeling in his chest. Was Tony taken? Of course he had to be taken, he was gorgeous.

               **Are they together?**

               **God, I hope not. The guy is hot. But they do seem to be really handsy with each other.** Steve sighed deeply, sitting back in his chair.

               **I drew him, Natasha.**

**You drew Tony?**

**Yeah. And it turned out really well, too.**

**Fuck, this is serious, isn’t it?**

**I think so. I haven’t, since Bucky…**

**I know. We’ll figure this out, okay?**

**Okay.**

               Steve sighed and put the phone down. While Natasha was busy doing reconnaissance, Steve figured it would help to get his mind off of things. So he called Sam, the only other person besides Nat that knew him from his Bucky days. Sam and Bucky had been really good friends; they had served together, and had been really close because of that. It hit Sam really hard when Bucky died, and the two had kind of bonded over their shared grief and memories.

               Sam picked up on the third ring. “Hey Steve,” he said upon answering.

               “Sam,” Steve greeted. “I’m ordering pizza and watching Scrubs. You in?”

               “When it comes to Cox?” Sam chuckled. “Always. I’ll be over in ten.” With that, Sam hung up. Steve liked that Sam didn’t waste time on drawn-out goodbyes or greetings. A leftover from his military days, Steve supposed.

               True to his word, Sam was over in ten minutes. The pizza hadn’t arrived yet, but Steve had already poured them both coke. Neither had a taste for drinking, not since those awful months after the funeral.

               “What’s up?” Sam asked, by way of greeting as he used his key to get in the apartment. Steve smiled.

               “Nothing much,” he told his friend, guessing that Natasha already filled him in. “What about you?” Sam shrugged, his eyes speculative.

               “Same old,” he answered, and sat down on the couch. “Nat told me about coffee guy. You doing alright?” Steve chuckled.

               “Better than ever.” Another thing Steve liked about Sam: he knew when someone just needed to hang out, and not talk about shit.

               “Great! What episode are we on?” The two settled in comfortably, and watched the show until pizza came. When it did, they paused it, and got their pizza, but continued right after. Honestly, Scrubs had to be Steve’s favorite show, in that it was hilarious and genuine.

               Steve woke the next morning with no memory of falling asleep. Huh. He usually had dreams. Not nightmares necessarily, but ever since he was a boy he’d dreamed vividly, in color. And he always remembered them. He supposed he was just too drained to dream.

               Sam was still sleeping, and Steve was careful not to wake him as he exited the living room. He had to get to work in a little over an hour, and the thought filled him with excitement. He would get to see Tony again.

               If anyone asked, no, he did not spend extra time on his appearance that morning. He absolutely did not put product in his hair to keep it from sticking up all over the place. He didn’t wear his nice cologne, and he did not wear his nicest black t-shirt under his uniform. Nope.

               Steve rode his motorcycle down to work. He and Bucky had both bought motorcycles together. Steve didn’t quite remember what happened to Bucky’s. That whole time period was blurry from the overuse of alcohol to bury his grief.

               When he walked in, Natasha was sitting there with a predatory grin, and he automatically knew that trouble was approaching fast.

               “Hey there, handsome,” she greeted him, and he sighed.

               “What did you do?” he asked. The grin widened.

               “I may have used my superior internet skills to collect information on our guy,” she informed him. “And shit, Steve, did you pick a great guy to be interested in.”

               “What’d you find out?” Steve questioned. Natasha brushed a strand of hair out of her face (she’d straightened it) and leaned forward.

               “He has a PhD,” Natasha began, and Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s an engineer even though he wants nothing to do with his father or Stark Industries. He’s extremely rich but lives simply, and his apartment is full of pastels and flowers, which, fucking adorable. His best friend, James Rhodes, is in the military, and Tony has done some work to help protect the soldiers.” Steve’s heart warmed at that. “The guy he works with, Clint Barton, doesn’t appear to be more than a friend, they’re both just very tactile.”

               “Thank god,” Steve remarked.

               “He is fluent in Italian, Russian, English, obviously, German, French, Chinese, Japanese, and Spanish. He learned sign language after he found out Clint is partially deaf. He was close to his butler, a guy named Edwin Jarvis, but he and his wife died a while back. He doesn’t seem to be very close with his real parents, and has dated a bunch of shitty guys. His hospital records are extensive, and point towards abuse in some cases.” Steve raised an eyebrow.

               “You found all this out in one night?” he asked. Natasha smirked.

               “Don’t underestimate me, Rogers.” Steve mentally filed away all of the information she had given him, making sure to note certain pieces. He got to work, but every time somebody walked in who wasn’t Tony, Steve felt his heart sink in disappointment.

               Finally, though, the door opened and there he was. He was wearing a pastel blue sweater, black skinny jeans, and converse high tops. The sleeves on his sweater were pushed up, revealing the tattoos Natasha had told him about. The flowers were bright, and beautiful, and intertwined along the olive skin. Steve’s fingers itched.

               When Tony came up to the counter, Steve was smiling. “Hey there,” he greeted the smaller man warmly. Tony flushed and glanced up at him through thick lashes.

               “Hi,” he replied.

               “What can I get you?”

               “Tall caramel Frappuccino, please,” Tony requested. Steve nodded and pulled out a cup, scribbling the order on it and for good measure, jotting down his number. He figured it couldn’t hurt, right? If Tony wasn’t interested, he would find out. He wrote ‘hot guy with the flower tattoos’ on the cup and then handed it off to Natasha, who got to making the drink.

               “That’ll be four ninety-six,” Steve informed the adorable motherfucker. Tony handed him a twenty, like the previous day, and their fingers brushed again during the exchange. Steve smirked at the blush staining Tony’s cheeks.

               “Keep the change,” Tony told him, and it already had the feel of an inside joke. Tony’s smile was soft and somewhat unsure.

               “Hey, what are you doing tomorrow night?” Steve asked abruptly, leaning forward on the counter. Tony blinked, and bit his lower lip.

               “Nothing, I don’t think. Why do you ask?”

               “I’d like to take you out,” Steve said, not beating around the bush. “You’re cute, and frankly, you seem like a nice guy. What do you say?” Tony’s mouth parted slightly, and Steve could feel his eyes darken. _Fuck, you horn dog_ , he scolded himself. _Get it under control_.

               “Sure,” Tony stammered, looking flustered but pleased.

               “Great,” Steve exclaimed, straightening up with a pleased smile. “I know a nice Italian place. Does eight o’clock work for you?”

               “Yeah, absolutely,” Tony confirmed, his cheeks still pink. “Do you want to meet there, or…?”

               “He’ll pick you up at your shop,” Natasha interjected, adding a “hey, Tony,” almost as an afterthought. Tony smiled.

               “Hi, Natasha,” he said. “And I guess that works. Do you want me to text you?”

               “I wrote my number on the cup,” Steve told him, and Natasha promptly handed it to him. Tony glanced down, and when he saw what Steve had written, blushed a darker red.

               “I’ll text you, then,” Tony said softly, and smiled at Steve, a sweet smile that made Steve want to hold the smaller man. With a cheery little wave, Tony turned and left with his coffee, giving Steve a nice view of his ass. As soon as he was gone, Natasha grinned and punched Steve on the arm. He was sure she thought it was light.

               “Way to go, Mr. Smooth,” she exclaimed. Steve just grinned, his cheeks aching. He was officially smitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Sam are such good bros. :D  
> Let me know your thoughts!


	3. Wistful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's point of view; and we get to find out exactly what happened to him :D   
> A little on the short side, but I'm relatively happy with it.

               Bucky was tired. In every sense of the word, he was tired. It had been a year and a half since his convoy had blown up, and he had gotten captured. It had been a year and a half with almost no information on what his captors wanted with him. A year and a half away from his husband, Steve. On his darkest days, in the dampness of his cage, he held on to the thought that Steve was back home, still waiting for him.

               Every day was the same in his new, strange life. He woke up to the sound of his cage door sliding open, and the clatter of a bowl being tossed in. The food was abysmal, to put it gently. Some oatmeal-y mush that had no taste whatsoever, but he had gotten used to it. The opening of the cage door left very little opportunity to escape. He had tried a few times, but to no avail. He was always captured, knocked out, and returned to his cage.

               So Bucky had pretty much stopped trying. At least, not like that. If he was going to get out unharmed, he would have to bide his time. Yes, the thought of waiting one more day killed him inside. But the thought of Steve kept him going. His beautiful, sweet Steve.

               After breakfast (ha!) Bucky spent his time remembering, and imagining. Remembering the life he shared with his husband. Picturing Steve’s face in his mind, taking special care to picture every detail; the little scar under his eyebrow from the time he cracked his face on the corner of a coffee table when they were kids. The way the sunlight would strike his face in the morning, causing his long eyelashes to turn golden, seeming to shower off specks of light every time he blinked.

               Bucky lived for those mornings. The lazy ones, their limbs still entangled from sex the night before, the sweat dried onto their skin. The ones where there wasn’t really a reason to get out of bed, except for hunger. It was always hunger on those mornings that eventually drove them from bed. Even then, it was perfect.

               Bucky would get to work in the kitchen, because baking was his thing. Pancakes, muffins, cupcakes, crepes, you name it and Bucky could make it. Steve’s favorite were the pancakes, though, and he could eat them by the stack. So pancakes were what Bucky made the most on those mornings.

               And during the bleak mornings spent in his cage, maybe a ten by ten foot dirt room with bamboo-like cage doors, Bucky imagined making pancakes for Steve again.

               The shuffling sound at the cage door told Bucky that it was lunchtime…not that mushy bland oatmeal-consistency crap counted as lunch, but still. To Bucky, lunch was burgers at Five Guys with Steve, and maybe Sam if the guy wasn’t deployed, and if he didn’t mind third wheeling.

               Bucky’s captors tossed in the bowl, and it clattered on the floor and some of the oatmeal crap sloshed onto the floor. Long ago, Bucky’s nose would have scrunched up in disgust. Now, it’s just part of the routine. Part of the life he had to lead. He was used to the way things went; in about a year and a half, the routine hadn’t changed. So Bucky couldn’t believe it when it finally did.

               Along with the lunch, a girl was pushed inside of his cell. She stumbled slightly, her long dark hair falling in her face and obscuring her features. The door was slammed shut behind her, and she faltered slightly, looking uneasy and unbalanced on her feet. Bucky, before he even knew what he was doing, surged forward and placed his hand on her waist to steady her. She lifted her head slowly.

               Her eyes were a stunning green, but marred by the confusion that was brimming out and spilling over her eyelashes. Her mouth was pursed into a thin line, and she blinked slowly as he met her gaze.

               “Are you okay?” he asked softly, the words tasting strange. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in a long time, and his tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth. The girl hesitated.

               “I think so,” she said. Bucky was taken aback by the thick eastern-European accent that colored her voice. “Who…who are you?”

               “Bucky,” he told her. “What’s your name?” The girl paused.

               “Wanda,” she said eventually. “My name is Wanda. Do you…know why they put me in here?” Bucky shook his head.

               “Look, why don’t you sit down?” he suggested. “You’re not looking so good; your skin is really pale.” For some reason, Wanda let out a harsh, bitter sounding laugh. Bucky was relieved to see some color fill her cheeks, and the flash in her green eyes.

               “I haven’t been outside in years,” she told him. “Of course I’m going to be pale.” Bucky was stunned. Wanda walked over to the wall and sat down with a pained grunt, her forehead shimmering with sweat. Bucky joined her cautiously, trying to give her some space (who knew what she had been through?) while also being close enough for comfort.

               “How long have you been here?” he asked quietly. She shrugged, a humorless smile curving her mouth.

               “A while. You?” She swiveled her head to look at him. Bucky swallowed.

               “About a year and a half,” he admitted. Wanda’s eyes were intense as she stared at him.

               “How’d you end up here?”

               “I’m a soldier,” he told her. “My convoy blew up. My buddies were shot and killed, but for some reason they kept me alive and threw me in here. I still don’t know what they want.”

               “Your convoy blew up,” she echoed. “Is that what happened to your arm?” Bucky’s head jerked up. In the year and a half on his own, he had almost gotten used to it, just like the food and the bland routine. When his convoy had exploded, he had lost consciousness. When he next woke up, he was in his cave with a freshly cauterized stump where his left arm used to be.

               He had screamed, and howled, and yes, even cried, horrified and disgusted at the missing appendage. Eventually, he had learned to accept it, and move without it.

               “Yeah,” Bucky answered Wanda, his voice suddenly rough. “What- what about you? How did they get you?” Her green eyes were suddenly clouded.

               “I don’t remember it well,” she murmured, looking away from him. “I was young. My brother and I were walking around the block- our parents were home cooking dinner. Paprikash, I think.” Wanda smiled, but it was a sad, wistful smile. “We were grabbed. Bags were put over our heads. Then I woke up here. I have not seen my brother since that night. But I know he is out there, still alive.”

               “How?” Bucky asked.

               “We’re twins,” she explained. “I can- feel him, I guess.”

               “Don’t worry, Wanda,” Bucky said determinedly. “We’re going to get out of here. I swear to you, we will both make it out of here and get back to our loved ones.” Wanda glanced over at him, and this time, her smile was hopeful. Bucky’s chest swelled. With the two of them together, he was sure they could do it. After all, Bucky had a beautiful husband to return to, and he couldn’t keep him waiting any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment! :)

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Excited for more? Is Tony too gay? Is that even a thing???  
> Let me know in the comments! :D


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